


Woman and Lady

by Ozma



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-06-26
Packaged: 2017-11-08 14:36:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozma/pseuds/Ozma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many who misjudge Arya, so rare shows of acceptance mean more than words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Woman and Lady

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the A Song of Ice and Fire kinkmeme, prompt:  
>  _After her sister is wedded to Lord Tywin, Sansa leaves King's Landing to join Arya at Casterly Rock. She immediately starts weeping and hugging Arya, lamenting the younger girl's horrible fate- but Arya doesn't quite see things that way._
> 
> This story is somewhat AU and resides almost entirely in the book-verse. Arya's older, has been with Tywin longer, and in general this is a different "universe" than my other stories with the duo. Because of these, she's calmed a bit.

His praise is almost as rare as his smiles.

Arya has been praised in the past, when she was particularly efficient, when her words brought forth ideas and inspiration, yet not even she has seen her lord husband's lips quirk. Even when she knows he is most content, the man is solemn and often silent. His burdens weigh heavily on him; when Tywin Lannister is alone with her, he allows his shoulders to slump slightly as his gaze to drop but a fraction, the only signs of weakness Arya knows she will ever witness.  He reminds her much of her father, in that way: a man who pushes himself to the point where he forgets who is lord and who is man.

The thought of her fallen sire does not bring the pang of despair it once might have, but the rage remains.  A deep pit of emotion resides within her that she's learned to tame, to use to her advantage, but disallows from overwhelming her sense.  It is anger that brought her this far and control that will keep her alive.

Despite her husband's - Arya thinks it almost silly that she can think of him as such, for they do not act like husband and wife - sternness, he is not immovable.  He does not have expressions for satisfaction or pleasure, as a normal man might, but his glances indicate as much, as do implications in his tone. All are brought upon by shows of competence or rare bouts of good news, as no witticism or jest amuses him.  Arya can hardly blame him; most of the japes spoken within hearing range are so offensive - oftentimes about her - or troublesome in nature that she does not find them funny, either.  Equally likely is that his influence simply makes her a dour creature.

He is a harsh man, to be certain, but also like her father and mother, there is a softness that he only shows to her.  It took her many moons to even recognize its presence at all, but Arya appreciates his subtle communication, not forceful or demanding - she might even call it cautious, hesitant, and shy.  She sees it now, as they sit over a small desk in his office in Casterly Rock well into the depths of the night. The golden glow of the candles illuminates their outlines so that they are tinged with a warm, rich brown as they fade in and out of the other's vision.

He touches her hand. 

In itself it is a simple motion, even accidental, for the side of his thumb brushes against her wrist.  Neither flinches at the contact, but if anyone else had done it the man might well have cut their hand off. The mismatched duo continues their discussion unhindered, as if the graze never happened at all. Tywin speaks very specifically about how she is to control funds, guardsmen, trade, of the orders she is to give under particular circumstances and it is in these times she feels she is most at peace.  It is not that she enjoys such politics - quite the contrary, it bores her to the point of tears - but, rather,  it is Tywin's simple, open respect for her that is most unexpected and welcome.  Their relationship is more professional than intimate, but there's a touch impossible to describe that makes them more than simple associates.

It is not reliance; neither needs or wants a companion.  
It is not necessity; neither Arya nor Tywin need the other, though Arya knows both will hesitantly admit the other is useful for furthering their goals.  
It is not friendship; Arya's lost more than enough friends to fear making more. The only person she relies on is herself. Tywin wants no friends.

It borders on tutelage; there are no official lessons, yet Arya clings to his every word as an experience in its own right. She watches as he orders his knights around, and mimics him almost instinctively, as if her survival depends on it. He manages his resources effectively, and Arya, too, learns the necessities of caring for a castle.  She curses herself for the subtle change, but by watching her lord husband she knows she, too, can play the same games he does.  But while she is disgusted with herself, the thought always makes her smile; Needle may have been taken from her, but Arya now has ways to deal with her enemies without resorting to physical means or childish rants declaring eternal hatred and wishes of death.It is amusing, in some sick way, for in that manner she has become more of a lady.  No longer does the young woman rely entirely on force to solve her problems, as she once did - only partly a truth, as Arya knows if she is given the opportunity she will murder those men who remain on her nightly list, but a truth nonetheless.  She hides the satisfied smile the arises from her thoughts, knowing that if she wears it Tywin will be angry, thinking her mind is wandering.   The young woman has heard his demands at least thrice and Arya is not daft; she knows what is expected of her.Sometimes men simply enjoy hearing themselves speak, even if much of her lord's discussion occurs without words.

There is a knock at the door, tentative and fearful. _Wise_ \- Arya thinks, for Tywin's reputation is such that he terrifies by name alone. His presence is even more overwhelming.  Tywin is not like Joffrey; he does not need irrational violence or threats to demand adherence. She wonders if someday she will command such respect and, if she does, she wishes it to be by her own merit, not because she is simply the wife of a powerful man.  Arya refuses to turn into Cersei Lannister.  The vile name sends a spike of anger through her as it echoes in her mind. She repeats it: _Cersei, Cersei, Cersei,_ long since refusing to acknowledge her title of queen.  It's the same as Arya does every night, calming, a mantra that keeps her whole.  By the time her rage falls away, Tywin has already called in his visitor.

Though she feigns boredom, Arya listens. She keeps her eyes down on the map, sometimes roaming over Tywin's hands placed atop it, his presence still close and strangely comforting. For all the show of letting herself fall into the shadows, her ears are as open as her eyes, listening intently.  Tywin does not dismiss her and she _knows_ he does not underestimate her; the lord recognizes Arya’s plans as clearly as she - and he approves.  The very scene embodies their relationship and Arya would have it no other way.

"My Lord, as per your command -" Arya's eyes flick up curiously, seeing two forms, both road-weary and travel-stained, before they flick back down, continuing her game. Her breath catches and her eyes widen and she lifts her eyes back up, careful not to expressly stare.  _Impossible._

Tywin cuts the man off without a word by standing from his place and walking through the office, creating a prolonged, uncomfortable, thick silence.  Arya's gaze follows him and it takes all of her self-control to not glance at his - _their_ \- guests.  Very few would give her that same respect.

He continues, to Arya this time, his presence making the unknown man scurry away like a rat underfoot - "Entertain Lady Stark until the servants have prepared her quarters."

There are more orders there - ones darker, even threatening.  That pit of revulsion returns, but Arya knows better than to speak her thoughts, for both her safety and the guest's. She nods, no smile or frown crossing her features; the trained impassive flatness that she learned from Tywin is all she lets show.  She brings her arms below the desk and clenches her hands into painfully tight, annoyed fists, still unable to look at the second guest - nay, not a guest, a prisoner.  Tywin's message is as clear as day: her sister's safety is in her hands, if Arya bumbles or even thinks about betraying him, lashing out with the small power he allows her, the girl will suffer the consequences.

She silently curses his exiting form; just when she thinks she might find him more than tolerable or companionable, he gives her reason to loathe him anew. But the rage does not last, slipping away as soon as the door closes behind and his form disappears alongside that of Sansa’s escort. Arya does not blame him for his actions; her lord is a man who understands possibility and acts simply in prevention.  Arya would have done the same in his place.  It says yet more of him that he allows her to lead, _alone_ , despite the possibilities; Tywin does not expect betrayal, but prepares for it.  Arya knows that she is one of very few he would give such trust to.

Finally alone, Arya lets her gaze fall onto her sibling.  The older looks mortified at what she's seen, the barest hints of the strange relationship that exists between husband and wife, letting her lady's mask fall away slightly once two are secure.  They stare at each other, illuminated only by the candle in the center of the room and the lantern near the door.  Arya stands, unable to relax, and even more unsure what to say, her body tense, feeling the necessity to do _something_ \- anything.   
  
She is _family_.  The thought sends such a powerful gust of warmth through the young woman that she fears she will blush in happiness, like a younger Sansa might have.   This is a moment she's dreamed of, despite the layers of poison beneath the reunion.  She once played this image over and over in her mind, the variations of the situation keeping her stable on her most agonizing nights.  Would they hug? Would Arya act the lady, just for a moment, to please Sansa and show her that she's grown?  Would they yell or laugh?  All of her plans fall away as she moves with a distant numbness.

As Arya approaches her sister - her guest, her charge, her prisoner - they examine each other.  Sansa is not quite unrecognizable, but just as Arya's has, her face has changed, and not just from age.  There is steel there, now, not quite as sharp as Arya's own or nearly as dangerous; Sansa's is a shield meant to protect and guard, where Arya's is a dagger.  Her blue eyes are not quite as bright, her manner not so open and trusting. Not the stupid girl any longer, it seems.  _What do you see in me? Do I look as much like Father as you do Mother?_

The duo stands apart, less than a pace between them, Arya holding in her rapid breaths as best she can.  Sansa is shaking; it's subtle, but Arya can see it.  She recognizes such body language easily, as it's all that has kept her alive for so long. They stare at the other for a prolonged moment, before Sansa closes the distance, clutching onto Arya fiercely, as tightly as she can.  Though Sansa is both the older and the taller, it is she who cries, who buries her face into Arya's simple, unadorned top. The younger carefully wraps her arms around the elder and presses her eyes closed; Jon used to hold her like this, to reassure her. Arya wishes with all her heart that she can cry along with her, even of happiness, but no tears are willing to fall.

"Arya!"  The elder finally sobs into her chest, her voice breaking at the word. There's as much happiness in her intonation as there is sadness.

"Sansa." It feels strange. She avoids calling the other 'sister;' they've both changed too much for the title to be relevant, even with bonds of blood.

For the first time in their lives, the two speak as equals, though their position and rank could not be more different.  Arya has never been one to care for such formalities; even as men start calling her "my lady" she continues to wield her blade - it's not Needle, but slightly larger, heavier and just as fine, crafted and balanced specifically for her - and practices languages and strategy on her own time.  She enjoys working with numbers more than songs and will write the most dull and boring of reports she usually sends to her assistants before she even considers knitting.

Arya does not know how long passes before Sansa calms, but her sobbing eventually abates and her breaths return to normal.  The younger guides her elder over to the desk she and Tywin sat at earlier and removes the parchment and maps, rolling them carefully and placing them in their appropriate chests.  She pulls a chair for her sister, in order to give her some comfort after the long trek **-** it's more out of respect for Sansa than because she feels the need to act mannerly. Arya has no wine or water to offer to her guest, but she doubts the other would take it anyway. 

With Sansa effectively sated, Arya rushes over to the door and firmly gives the order for a room to be prepared.  The warmth of satisfaction flows through her when they listen without question, despite all size and age differences.

“Are you well. . .sister?"  The elder questions. Sansa does not share Arya’s reluctance in use of the familial title.

"As well as I can be." She murmurs as she closes the door behind her and moves back through the room, her body calming, the desire for action slowly falling away.  She is not elegant, nor does she try to be; her footsteps are silent and her movements discreet, more out of habit than purpose.  Her answer is intentionally vague; after what Arya has seen, felt, smelled, tasted, lived through, it continually amazes her that she is both alive and sane at all – “well” is an understatement of her condition.

Sansa can read into the phrase what she may, as she will likely find the assumptions more pleasant than the reality. It is only belatedly that she recognizes her subtlety as Tywin's influence; where Arya once might have been blunt and even viciously overbearing, no longer does she have any interest in making her sister uncomfortable.

"Why? Why would they marry you? To _him_?"  Arya is shocked at Sansa's vehement reaction, her tone unlike anything she’s heard from her.  The elder shudders, the younger frowns.  The idea seems abhorrent to Sansa, much like Joffrey's marriage once was to Arya.  In spite of the overt hostility in the air between them, Arya finds herself pleased at her sister's openness and how she is more willing to speak her thoughts.  Sansa is not so meek and placid any longer; with distance and trials, the two have drawn closer than ever.

The young woman wonders how to explain her relationship.Her husband is not so foul; he is loyal and devoted. Lord Tywin cares for his lands and his people, wanting nothing more than for his family’s prosperity. Not all Lannisters share his passion, she admits, and she would never call him honorable, but he is a man she respects.

"It's not so terrible." She keeps her words ambiguous, trying to find a way make her sister understand.  They do not marry for love, but neither do they marry for power or influence.  Arya's claim to Winterfell is weak and Tywin gains little from it.  She searches for words, but the explanations only sound absurd, much like how Sansa's former fascination with being a proper lady, with queens and knights and tourneys, once baffled Arya.  The younger woman can hardly believe the existence of the bond she shares with the older man herself, but quietly accepts it as part of her.

In a small bout of irrationality driven by a strange, unfamiliar protectiveness, Arya continues: "He's not nearly as much of a beast as Joffrey."  It's a subtle attack and Arya is ashamed of it the moment she sees Sansa's cringe. _Joffrey_ \- she hates him most of all. Her dreams of the King are so spiteful that when she wakes after her dagger tastes his blood, her sex warms in pleasure.  As Hand, her lord husband is the only person who keeps the monster under control. Arya places her hand atop her sister's on the desk and continues, apologetically, the contact speaking more than her awkward words ever can. She tries to make Sansa understand, that there is trust and a bond, not just responsibility and pain.  "I am castellan of Casterly Rock now."

Arya prefer titles like that - castellan.  It certainly sounds better to her ears than something foolish like "Lady of Casterly Rock." Arya may be a woman, but she will never be a lady. The more formal title is inaccurate as well, for she lacks any political control over the Rock.  Tywin retains overall command of the Lannister troops and political relationships, where Arya's purpose is simple management. She makes certain that resources are properly handled and that the populace is satisfied.  Her skill with numbers gives her ability in mercantile negotiation few have. Arya appreciates, more than all else, that even if she sits behind a desk all day and deals with retainers, she can use the abilities she favors, not pretending to be something she's not.  She does not hold her tongue, for its strength and ferocity demands more respect than any of the quiet, submissive women who stand in their husbands’ shadows will ever receive.

"A cage as gilded and fine as the Red Keep, to be certain, but a cage nonetheless."  There is sadness in her words, but also stubbornness.  Arya knows she should not be surprised; Sansa recognizes her new predicament as clearly as her younger sibling. Sansa is as much a prisoner in the Rock as in King’s Landing.  Arya is not Cersei - and she thanks the Gods for that - but it sends pangs of pain through her; she knows she must keep her sister here. Conflict arises within, a strange mixture of acknowledging her duty - to both Sansa and her husband - and her innate desire to rebel, to do what she believes to be right. Arya knows there must be something she can do to help her sister - it's well within her power. But not yet, not when it is so obvious that she is at fault for any disappearing Stark. More difficult will be the explanation that Arya has no desire to leave.

A smile passes over her features as she meets her sister's eyes. "I've always been good at escaping."  She silently demands her sister's patience and lets her know that, within Arya Lannister, Arya Underfoot still exists, molded by her time as a mouse, as Weasel, and even as Arry.

And Sansa understands.  The tears threaten to spill out anew, but Sansa pushes them back with that new strength of hers.  There is still much to be said, decisions to discuss, pains to overcome, but they've taken the first step in becoming the sisters they never were.


End file.
